


Phantom Echoes

by Duckgomery



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, corpse!jack headcanon, head full of questions, now for something completely different, poor baby, very sound heavy in a way i guess, without an answer to be found
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckgomery/pseuds/Duckgomery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For three hundred years, Jack's been pulling his hair over the sound that should be there but isn't.</p><p>(You're so close, Jack, so close you can taste it)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantom Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, been a bit but wooooo, it's done.  
> Started out as a simple little drabble I had for my corpse!jack headcannon, but quickly managed to escalate into this.It was a long night the night I sat down and wrote this....  
> But anywho, I tried something different with the writing style.  
> Hope you enjoy.

               The one thing he hated about his three hundred years of isolation was the silence.

                Sure there was the bitter howling of the wind around his frame, the crunching of snow and ice beneath his bare feet, even the eventual laughter of children, caused by the fun he whipped out of thin air for them (always for them).

                Still, it always seemed like there was something he should’ve been hearing all along and the not knowing (what could it be? What could it possibly be?) was starting to really get to him.

                This phantom sound, just beyond his hearing range, was starting to haunt him with the growing void it was slowly and surely becoming.

                There was something missing in the picture, and it was driving Jack crazy.

 

               If there was one word Jack could use to describe the Guardians, as hard as it was to pin them to only one word, it would be that they were loud (too loud, much too loud).

               North was blaring with sound, with a booming voice that rattled the very core of one’s being, colours so bright they screamed at you from wherever you were in the room. No matter where North was in the workshop, it never took much effort to find him, his very self calling any and all attention to him.

               “Come down from rafter Jack, join us by fire. You must be cold, no?”

               With all attention drawn to him, four pairs of eyes looking at him with growing curiosity (why couldn’t they leave him, let him have the quiet), he has no other choice but to descend, whispering wind cradling his slowly falling body.

               His feet touched down with the slightest hint of a crunch that goes un-noticed by the room’s occupants, despite the fact that all attention is on him. With small, hurried strides, Jack crosses the remaining distance, taking a seat on the heavy, woven rug, as far from the crackling hearth as possible without getting called out on it.

               Everyone seems satisfied with the change in proximity and go back to their previous conversation, as trivial as it is.

               Jack doesn’t let himself relax in the warmth as the others do, he has to keep focused ( slipping isn’t an option), with all this extra noise it’s going to take him even longer to figure out the identity of the sound (three hundred years of searching, but he feels he’s close, oh so close).

               He ends up staring into the flickering flames, lulled by the fizzle and oping of the wood being fed into it, and how it contrasted yet acted as a steady layer beneath the conversations going on with the others.

               He despised the rhythm that they all shared with one another.

 

               Tooth was like a drill, the fluttering constant, and the pitch ever alternating between various levels. Extended periods of time spent with her did little to help his already fraying patience, often ending with Jack making one excuse or another to get away before the building pressure exploded, leaving everything on show for Tooth.

               He couldn’t have that (oh how she’d whine and weep and moan, she’d never shut up, never shut up).  
               Despite the constant dull sound that he’d eventually associated with her, he still kept coming back. The Tooth Palace, as busy with hustling activity as it was, there was just something about it that kept on bringing him back (remember, do you remember?)

               There, in the echoing halls and chambers, filled with birdsong and the chirps, chattering, and cries of the smaller fairies, something at the very back of his mind stirred, trying to call out (screaming, Jack, it’s screaming, can’t you hear it?) The longer he spent the closer it got.

               Yet he always left, the pressure (too much noise, too much, too much) becoming too great for him to handle.

               “Are you alright, Jack? You look pale, well, paler than normal.”

               Her voice is laced with bells and warbles, concern ringing heavy. All he can hope to do to rid himself of those sounds is to shake them free of his head (get them out, there’s supposed to be something more important in here than that.)

               “I’m fine, just the heat, gets to me after a while.”

               She seems to buy it, but her anxiousness leads to the frequency of her wing-beats increasing, the pitch becoming too much.

               Jack stands up, smiling (lying) and excusing himself, now clammy hand clasped tightly around his staff as he calls upon the wind (whistling) to carry him away, cooling him down until he no longer drips (drip, drip, what a pretty sound, what a rhythm, drip, drip, drip).

 

               He loved spending downtime in the most remote locations he could find. Whether it is the deepest recesses of the northern oceans he could sink to, or fissures, concealed in the very depths of glaciers, void even of the wind’s songs. Being in such places left him with only his thoughts to listen to. Nothing else. (Always silent, oh so silent).

               He used to love hiding in the darkest of caves, when you stopped moving, there was nothing to echo down the jagged corridors (nothing but dark, dark and quiet).

               He couldn’t indulge in the dark anymore, for fear of who else may now be lurking there in the depths (never alone, never truly alone, but you know that Jack, you can’t escape, not really).

               The ocean was his favourite though. Down there, suspended in the wet mutterings, the answer, the name to the sound that was missing, that had eluded him, was at its strongest. He attributed it to the rocking, the motion, the push and pull that surrounded him on all sides. Something about that made it so familiar, maybe even more so than the memories that Tooth could stir, simply by being in her presence, her centre of power.

               As much as he wanted to stay there (forever, Jack, it’s almost the same, just use this to fill the void), he knew he had to eventually leave. Stints becoming shorter and shorter as the other Guardians became aware of his prolonged absences (why couldn’t they leave him? Couldn’t they see he was missing something?)

               He hated going back to the noise that they kept on insisting that they make, feeling that that was what he needed after being alone for so long. The best remedy for reclusion was total immersion into social situations after all (he didn’t want this, he didn’t ask for this, he just wants to go back, back to the quiet, back to almost realising).

               He had a growing sense, a muttering in the corner of his mind that they were growing suspicious of his actions, or lack of. He was going to have to throw them off now (or drive them away, kicking and screaming, and then silence, nothing but cold and quiet, just how you like it).

 

               “Get back here, Frostbite, you hear me? This ain’t funny, mate, it’s freezing out here.”

               The others had followed him out into the cold expanse of the Arctic Circle that North’s workshop called home. After a small incident where Jack may have gotten agitated that resulted in an outburst (SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!), they just couldn’t let him be.

               With the borderline monochromatic landscape surrounding them, they were louder than ever, screaming beacons in amidst the still snow scape. He was trapped hiding in plain sight, no cover available for a speedy get away without drawing attention.

               He could wait though (three hundred years he’d been waiting, what were a few hours in comparison to that?).

               He watched as they went from firm, sure steps, conviction in each and every stride, to the hunched over forms, teeth chattering (grating), frames wracked with shudders, cries becoming more lack lustre as hope dwindled.

               It seemed the guardian of hope was the only one still keen on the search, besides to fact that he was most crippled by the extremities that the environment provided him. Nose twitching this way and that, the pooka had come close to finding him. Many times the mist coming from the over-sized mammal’s mouth had ghosted right by him.

               “He’s obviously not out here, Bunny, we’ve been searching for hours.”

               Bells and chimes ring once more, solemn in tone but guilt does not resonate with Jack (That’s right, go away, all of you just go, GO!).

               North agrees in a way that it’s a small wonder that the snow drift that he’s submerged in doesn’t fall apart, and Sandy tinkles solemnly in the barely there way he does.

               Bunny’s posture shifts in that way he does when he’s about to get going with that grating voice of his (too much, too much), the lilt, so different than what Jack is accustomed to throws him off, the unfamiliarity of it just putting him on the defensive (new is bad, new will hurt, new won’t help you, none of them will ever help). Begrudgingly he turns with the other Guardians, shoulders slumped (defeated), and joins them with the journey back to the workshop.

               He was too eager though (good things come to those who wait), and before he knew it, he was struck down from the sky, plummeting the few feet he’d managed to gain, and crunching down into the snow beneath him, boomerang lodged firmly in his side.

               The cries, of concern, panic, apologies, fill the air, but all Jack wants is to seep into the firm, packed ice beneath him, desperate for the rhythmic drip, drip, dripping that comes with thawing out, anything to get away with this cacophony of discord coming towards him in a apprehensive crescendo (just leave, take your noise and go).

               Bunny looks shocked and somewhat sickened, somehow turning green at how deep his weapon of choice has lodged. The shock overcoming them all leaves only the whispers of the wind, not wanting to interfere, along with the constant drilling of Tooth’s wings. It’s welcomed none the less, giving him time to re-establish his equilibrium and push himself (slow and steady) upwards.

               Sending so much time in the snow probably wasn’t his best choice of action, as little as it bothers him, it makes his body stiff, movements’ jerky, often accompanied with crunches, creaks, and cracks.

               Something snapped them out though, whether the sounds his motions caused, or the fact that he was moving, sending them from standstill, mouths gaping, into action. North took to pause in picking Jack up, cautious to the curved piece of wood in his side, taking powerful (the crunching so loud. Was it the snow or him? Arms were too tight, too tight) strides towards to growing glimmer of lights in the distance.

               Tooth darted off ahead, taking the drilling with her that was growing even more so on his nerves. With her went the soothing humming and slight shifting that was Sandy. Bunny stayed though. Mouth moving a mile a minute, apologises and assurances and hop, hop, hopping (the crunching, nothing but crunching). Jack must have given some sign of discomfort, because the babbling brook that Bunny had descended to froze, filling the expanse with the quick, steady crunching of snow underfoot.

               North shifted Jack, bringing him closer to his body, under the presumption that he was in shock and needed the body heat (silence does not mean wrong, can’t you see?). Held tightly to the older man’s chest, Jack hears it, the most peculiar sound he’s yet to come across (oh so familiar though, doesn’t it sound familiar?). It was fast, but steady. A deep thumping that acted as a constant, drumming perfectly in time to North’s steps, thud, thud, thud, thud, always in time, calming, and steady rhythm. He became lost in it, focused on nothing but it, not realising he’d been taken inside and laid down on a bed, surrounded by all sides.

               “He’s not breathing, not moving, what do we do, what do we do?”

               Shrill bird cries filled the room, drilling as persistent as ever.

               “I didn’t mean to hurt the kid, supposed to throw him off course, not enough force to damage, I didn’t mean for this.”

               Distraught, the accent was heavier, whispers of sand, barely there rustling doing its best to console the guilt ridden veteran.

               Feeling looser, Jack slowly moved his arm, gripping the obstruction in his side, pulling it out with a wiggle and a tug, letting it slide out of his damp hand, clattering to the floor.

               The drip, drip, dripping filled the room, everyone at a loss at what had happened. Even the drilling, the constant high pitched shriek had ceased (thank god, finally a moment of somewhat silence).

               “Jack? But, but, you were not, how? You weren’t-“

               “You’re not bleeding?”

               North’s booming voice, now subdued, yet with the underlying creak that precedes an incoming avalanche, adds, effectively cutting off the stammering cries that tooth was emitting.

               “So?”

               Drip, drip, drip.

               “Does it hurt, Jack?”

               “What? My side?”

               Sitting up, Jack moves to pull up his now ruined pullover, leaving the gape in his side on full display. With something akin to curiosity, he prods about the gash, with not even the phantom sensation of anything close to recognition of feeling.

               “Why would I feel it? I’ve had worse with nothing so why should this be any different?”

               He looks down at the water (?) coating his fingers from where he was poking around, watching with fascination as the droplets slip down the softening appendages that were his fingers (he had to get out, couldn’t stay, couldn’t stay, too hot, couldn’t thaw, not here, not in-front of them).

               Something akin to horror  dawns on all their faces, though the reason behind it is lost on Jack, sliding off the bed, jumper forgotten, having been nothing more than an aesthetic addition to his wardrobe, not for practicality (not needed for warmth, was never cold after all, more important things to worry about than the cold after all).

               Before they could voice anything, he’s smashed through the sheet of glass blocking the window. Not caring for the shouts he was leaving in his wake, nor the shards sticking into portions of his now exposed body, he flew off, soothed by the sweet coos of the wind, heading off to one of his favoured solitude retreats.

               He had a few things to ponder, including that strange drumming that North emitted from his very centre (was that unique to the man? Was that steady beating Wonder? But he’d found his centre, shouldn’t he be making that sound to?).

 

               He’d flown too low and been caught on a warm front, trapped to the warmer belt of the world. He hated being stranded like this, where it was warmer, there was more life, and where there was life, there was noise (so much noise, too much, it hurt, too loud.). Fortunately, he only had to wait for it to turn to night, for the land to somewhat cool down, so he could once more travel without further deteriorating his condition, which was not helped by being in such heat.

               Unfortunately, night meant sleeping, and with sleep came dreams. This night that Jack had made his move, Sandy so happened to be in the area, sweeping the boy up and onto his golden cloud in the sky with barely the hint of a whisper to announce his arrival.

               As much as the Sandman was Jack’s favourite (so quiet, it’s like he’s not even there, barely there), he didn’t want the man to see him like this. He knew he was a sight to behold right now, skin sallow and bloated, past wounds, having been nothing more than chasms in his body, now filled with something rancid, something that he was certain Sandy could smell, judging by the way his face scrunched ever so slightly.

               He needed to go south, or north, doesn’t matter where, as long as it’s enough to solidify him once more. He can’t even seek comfort in the oceans rocking embrace, the motion being more to prone to rip at him than soothe as it once had. Sandy had him anchored though, there was no escape, not for now (wait, wait and strike). Resigned (for now) that he was captive, he took advantage of the near silence that was Sandy, to puzzle out the phantom sound that haunted him with its absence. As his thoughts began to drift in the way they do only through focus, he picked up the timely, soft, yet present fluttering that emitted from Sandy.

               He leaned closer, closing the distance as the sound got louder (good sound, good, almost there, do you realise it yet?) until his ear was all but pressed against Sandy’s chest. The small man ceased his conducting, letting the shifting, and shimmering golden giants below to act on their own.

               “Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum,” he whispered, smile growing across his damp, grey face. Laughter with the edge of hysteria overlapping his voice (come on! Isn’t it obvious?).

 

               The journey back to the workshop was consumed with the sound within Sandy’s chest. Eyes and mouth widened in fascination, adoration and wonder, Jack failed to recognise the tell-tale signs beginning to take effect, the stiffness that was familiar to the extent that it was a comfort, settling over him as the air grew colder and colder.

               Sandy let himself act as Jack’s personal soundbox, not being able to find it in him-self to deprive the boy of something that brought such childlike expressions to his face that was long since overdue.

               North first joyful, then concerned at the sudden arrival of the two guardians, pushed his way through the crowds of yeti’s and elves bustling through the hallways, leading the two away to one of the private lounges. At Sandy’s insistence, North put out the fire, instead opting to rely on candles to light the room.

                Then, and only then, when Sandy was sure that the boy wasn’t going to thaw out again, did he lower his cloud down, gently dropping the two of them onto the ground. Jack’s fingers still hooked tightly into his robe, ear all but glued to his chest.

               Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump.

               Jack knew the others were talking about him, that it would only be a matter of time before the other two would be brought in, he didn’t care about the noise, the ruckus that would ensue. He was so close to figuring it out, the missing sound, the one he’d spent the past three hundred years searching for, struggling to remember. Finally, finally he was at the finish line, answer right around the corner. The secret to reaching it though laid inside.

               Inside was where the sound was.

               (Do it, you know where it is now, you know what to do now)

               He continued to mouth along to the sound, smiling softly. Totally missing the worried glances being shared between the rooms other occupants.

               “Why don’t I make the sound?”

               Shatter.

               “What do you mean, Jack?”

               Wonder at what the boy could possibly mean, though a sense of foreboding, filled North’s usually jolly (not so loud now, good) voice.

               “The beating, the drums. You and Sandy both have them, should I have it?”

               Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.

               “Jack, that’s heartbeat.”

               Sad eyes, sad voice, doesn’t matter, not now, he needs to know, needs, needs, needs.

               “How do I get one? Is that all it is? Can’t believe it took me so long to figure out. Tell me, tell me, tell me?”

               Abandoning the now accelerated beating that Sandy was emitting, Jack bounded over to North, like a puppy, flesh sagging in places, still in the process of resolidifying.

               He missed the silent exchange between North and Sandy, communicated solely through glances.

               “It’s not easy as that, Jack. Heartbeat, it comes from here, your heart. It beats and keeps you alive, pumps blood, keeps you going, yes?”

               He nods. Finally, some information. He’s almost there, almost has it. No more will he spend the nights sitting, pulling his hair over the void in sound that he couldn’t fill no matter how long, hard, or loud he screamed. This was it, this was his answer, and he has it, has it, has it.

               North places his big, heavy hands on Jack’s shoulders, firm yet careful of the too soft body laying beneath the thin, thin layer of skin that seems to be all that is keeping the boy together at this stage. He looks down with old, sad eyes (hurry up, need to know, need it, need it, give it, give it.)

               “Only living has heartbeat. Only living need it. Living need heartbeat and breath to keep moving and alive. I’m sorry, Jack. I’m sorry.”

               He wasn’t saying something. North was hiding something. Why wasn’t he telling him (he’s greedy, wants it all for himself, doesn’t want to share it with you)?

               “And? Just tell me what I need to start it? I need it, it’s so quiet, North, I need the drumming, it’s been missing for so long now, tell me, tell me!”

               Windows creaked at his outburst, he weather outside mirroring his turmoil. Rattling, banging, far off shattering, and the howling, no rhythm, no pattern, just chaos. He couldn’t take this spontaneity of sounds anymore, he needed order, control, he needed the drumming, the beat that he couldn’t wield on his own.

               North said it was in his chest, right here, left breast. Before either man could stop him, his hands started clawing at the flesh there, the still soggy meat giving way easily beneath his frantic fingers, digging, clawing, seeking.

               North dove in quickly, latching on to both hands as Jack kicked and screamed and twisted his body, trying to get away (need to get to it, need the drumming, let me have it! You can’t stop me now!). Sandy gathers a handful of sleep dust, darting up from behind with a patter and throwing it into the fighting boy’s face.

               As Jack’s movements become more and more sluggish, body betraying him once more (hasn’t it always?), he looks at them with pleading eyes, before the darkness (and the silence, nothing but silence now) closes in.

 

               Ka-clunk, ka-clunk, ka-clunk.

               No more is he plagued by the silence, nor the identity of the phantom sound.

               Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiir.

               Ka-clunk, ka-clunk, ka-clunk.

               North fixed it, he fixed it and now it’s no longer quiet.

               Ka-clunk, ka-clunk, ka-clunk.

               Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiir.

               Ching.

               Ka-clunk, ka-clunk, ka-clunk.

               And what was even better was that it was a sound all his own. Nothing like the heavy booms of North, or the sleep like fluttering of Sandy. This was his, all his.

               The sweet sound of metal chiming, scraping ever so delicately, the almost whistle like breath that punctured the syncopation along with the crack that cues the repetition. It was all him, and he love it.

               Fingers clumsily traced over the patch-work of flesh, bulging and taunt, feeling the sound through the thin membrane holding it in.

               It didn’t matter about the booming voices, the drilling pressure, or the unfamiliar, hostile sounds anymore. He had his void filled, the rhythm found, what more could he possible want?

               Though the way the other’s chest seemed to rise and fall, like the bellows stoking a fire, that had always looked so familiar (remember? Do you remember this one?).

               Jack wonders what such a motion would feel like.


End file.
